


red rouge lips

by lmeden



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 07:47:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're in bed, together, almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	red rouge lips

Her makeup has smudged; it trails across her temple and over the curve of her cheek. Eames breathes softly, his lips inches from her chin, and watches her eyes move under their lids as she dreams. He wonders whether her dreams consist only of cold darkness – a legacy of years of somnacin-induced slumber – or if she still lives second (third, thousandth) lives under the guise of unconsciousness.

In the soft light from the bathroom, her lips are very red, and her skin very white.

Eames sighs, her lips purse at the sensation of his breath, and he slides off the bed.

In the bathroom, he brushes his hair away from his eyes and examines the dark circles underneath. He cannot remember the last time he slept deeply. When he blinks, he drags his eyes open.

He leans forward and sets the water running cold. He splashes his face with it, and as it runs across his stubble and down his neck, it helps wake him slightly. He walks away from his reflection and back to the bedroom.

She is curled onto herself, her legs to the side and her arms stretched out across the bed. Her shirt is tangled and wrinkled across her slim figure, and Eames can’t help but pause to admire her – the careless ease of her sprawl, the curve of one breast that shows under thin cotton. He crawls back into bed, and the bed dips under his weight.

She doesn’t move, shift, or seem to sense him at all. Again, he wonders whether she dreams.

He decides not to disturb whatever is going through her mind, and lies down next to her, head sinking into the worn pillow and hand curling over the edge of the mattress. He closes his eyes and, with the whisper of her breathing soft next to his ear, attempts to think of nothing.

When Eames sleeps, he doesn’t dream; nor does he fall into darkness, a blankness that brings rest for the mind. Eames is conscious of every moment of his sleep.

A queer sucking sensation comes over his mind as if he is being pulled into a deep morass. He is pulled under, until darkness smothers him and holds him down with a thousand hands. Finally, he feels nothing but coldness around him. His limbs are gone, his heartbeat still. All that remains is the darkness and his fettered mind – clawing at the cage that somnacin has created out of his mind, unable to truly panic without the body’s functions to assist it.

He heard once that all dreamers experience sleep differently after using somnacin. Some have vivid dreams for a while, before they fade away to bare whispers. Some dreamers cease to remember sleep – they close their eyes and then wake what seems to be an instant later. And some will never stop dreaming, though they will never remember afterwards.

Eames is cursed with vertigo, this dizzying trapped sensation which gives him no rest, though it fades when he opens his eyes.

As he wakes, Eames sucks in a relieved gasp, then the dream shreds itself to tatters and fades, and Eames runs his hands over his eyes. He is exhausted, as always. He can never truly sleep.

He rolls onto his side and looks along the curve of her neck, the gentle pulse of her heartbeat. Then he reaches out, slips a hand under the small of his back, rolls her towards him. She sighs, and he whispers, “Mal,” and kisses her.

She opens her mouth to allow his tongue inside and drapes an arm over his shoulder, pulling him close with sudden strength. Eames kisses her deeply, one hand tracing the line of her spine under her shirt and the other trailing through her hair, brushing against the lobe of her ear.

With a twist, she squirms closer, cunt to his cock, her heat sending a flash of desire through him. He opens his mouth wider, pressing further into her. Her tongue is slippery against his, tantalizing as she teases him with her kisses.

Eames bites at her bottom lip and feels it curve into a smile. He peels his eyes open.

Her head tilts back and her eyes slide open, and a spark runs through Eames. The smudge of her makeup is a dark bandit’s mask across her face, but her red rouge lips are in a mischievous smile. He wants her – to melt in his arms, twist underneath him, to smile at him suddenly. His heart pounds with his desire. He almost laughs. He feels so alive. So awake.

She turns her head and brushes her lips against his ear.

“Yes,” she asks, almost a purr, and Eames smiles against her cheek and turns them over. He presses her into the sheets.


End file.
